Vicious: The Vivid Trilogy, #2

Prologue

THE FLAME OF A TALLOW CANDLE sputtered below the rim of the pewter candleholder, casting eerie shadows beyond the narrow circle of light it afforded. Shuffling in the darkness and shivering in her threadbare nightshift, the girl knelt and poked at the dying embers in the hearth. Outside, lightning momentarily lit the sky and the kitchen while thunder near rattled her already chattering teeth. Wind whistled around the edges of the door and whipped the branches of the budding oak tree outside the window.

Curse this weather! She grumbled to herself while she added a log to the fire then filled the heavy teakettle from a bucket near the fireplace. Curse this hour! Her grandmother used to say that during the witching time of night, evil women worked their magic, and ghouls sought the souls of the unborn. She unconsciously rubbed her rounded belly where her shift stretched tightly as she crouched in front of the crackling fire. Her babe, her firstborn, would arrive by the next full moon. She felt sure of it.

She prayed for a boy—a son, even an illegitimate one—would be valued, maybe even loved. If she had stayed in England she would be married by now. She should never have traveled to this godforsaken colony, but her father had given her no choice, indenturing her for four years to help reconcile his debts to a nobleman most considered insane, and when that nobleman packed his household for the colonies, she’d left her life, left England, and sailed to Jamestown. Grown now and nearing the end of her servitude, she wanted nothing more than to find some cottage and to live life for herself and her child.

Her fingers worried the ends of her long brown braid as she thought of her freedom. Mayhap Robert would leave with her. She knew his father, Lord St. Clair, would never agree to his only son marrying a servant little better than a slave, but Robert loved her. He would do right by her and the babe. She had to believe that. Robert didn’t even know about their child since he’d left for England before she realized she carried, but when he returned, he’d set all to rights.

A boom of thunder made her gasp and jump; a shiver that had nothing to do with the chilly room raced along her spine and raised the hair on her arms. She rubbed the ache in her lower back that had troubled her all day and kept her awake. The sturdy ladder-back chair stood within reach, and she used it to push and pull herself awkwardly to her feet.

Now, where did I put that cup? She spoke aloud to the babe who kicked a reply as she lifted the candle to find the cup she’d already filled with the special tea blend the strange, old midwife had given her. Goody Smythe lived on the outskirts of Jamestown, nearly in the forest, and was feared by most of the respectable women in the settlement, but she was also the only midwife who would speak to an unmarried, indentured serving girl. Witch or no, for two months now, Goody Smythe’s brew had eased her aches and somehow given her the energy she needed to stay on her feet and fulfill the grueling daily duties heaped upon her by Goody Crowe, the head of the household servants. Today, she had scoured the pewter dishes now gleaming in a hutch near the door to the servants’ quarters.

Goody Crowe ruled the house servants with an iron fist in the absence of a proper mistress, Lord St. Clair having lost his wife two winters past. No excuses from work would be given to an unmarried servant girl with child, and she’d asked for none but rather counted herself lucky that she’d not been turned out when her growing child could no longer be concealed. Her master had been so busy with his work of late that she doubted he’d even noticed. He had never asked her about the child’s father, but she would not have told him she carried his grandchild anyway. That was for Robert to do.

There you are! Picking up the cup in her other hand she turned back to the kettle that must surely be warm by now. Grabbing the towel from the scarred work table, she gingerly pulled the kettle hook toward her and lifted the heavy pot. She breathed in the pungent steam as she filled the cup to its rim then lifted it to her mouth. The familiar burn in her throat soon gave way to warmth that spread throughout her muscles and eased her aches.

Raising the cup in a mock toast, she said, Thank you, Goody Smythe. She smiled and rubbed her swollen abdomen. Robert will return, and all will be well, little one.

In answer, the clouds let loose a rumble. As a flash brighter than all the others drew her attention to the window, a searing pain ripped through her.

Chapter One

WHAT I NEED TO KNOW: Is my dad alive? How is he connected to the organization that kidnapped Aunt Charlotte? Where does this power come from?

What I know: My mother is dead. Aunt Charlotte is dead. My old life is dead.

Okay, not literally. As Aunt Charlotte used to say, pity party time, but I think that I deserve a few minutes of that even if I did choose this existence for myself. I lost everything when I chose to leave—my best friend Abby, my dream boyfriend Easton, and worst of all, my home with Aunt Charlotte.

I live, if you can call it that, in a closet-sized motel room turned apartment in what amounts to a truck stop where, as far as I can tell, the dot on the map is bigger than the town. When this town sprang up in the 1950s, it was an important stop on Route 66, the best way west. But it looks to have been dried up for longer than it was ever popular.

Besides the motel, there’s a big gas station where trucks stopover for the night, a diner, and a mostly empty town square. Beyond the square, some depressed houses contemplate suicide while the July heat peals their paint. Overall, not super-inspiring.

In its prime, it probably looked like something from a black and white television show where moms baked cookies all day, kids learned valuable life lessons in half an hour, and dads… well they came home every night. I’d just like my dad to come home one night—that is if I still had a home. I would love to know my dad’s name, see his face even if it’s only a photograph. I lie awake every night, listen to the mice scurrying in the ceiling of this hole, and wonder if I look like him, sound like him. Did he love my mom? Did he leave us, or did we leave him?

I think about him, Aunt Charlotte, Abby, Easton, all missing from my life. At least I know staying away from Abby and Easton is probably saving their lives, something I couldn’t do for Aunt Charlotte. I can almost hear her scolding me for blaming myself. Vivian, sweetie, crazy psycho men with eyes like bottomless pits cannot be trusted, she would say, red curls spilling from beneath her gardening hat. It’s only been three months since I lost her, but her face is already beginning to blur in my memory. If I were really a superhero like Easton accused me of being, I would have saved her from Hoyt Matthews and his henchmen.

Now, here I am, eating microwaved soup every day and trying not to brainjack the customers for tips in the diner where I waitress. I’ve been working my way west, Destination Unknown, USA, looking for something I can’t even define. I just think I’ll know when I get there (as if that makes sense even to me). I think I’ll ‘feel’ that Mom was here or Dad worked there.

When I took off in Aunt Charlotte’s car, I knew I’d never go back. I needed to become invisible to protect Abby and Easton and to keep Hoyt from finding me. The monsters have taken Aunt Charlotte, my mom, and most likely my dad. I won’t let them have Abby or Easton, the two people on Earth unfortunate enough to care for me, and even though it’s been hard, it feels good in a weird way to stand on my own, to only worry about getting from point ‘A’ to point ‘B’. I haven’t even been all that scared, just very, very lonely.

After leaving the park where all hell broke loose, I tossed my phone and stopped in the first big city out of state where I sort of mentally convinced—okay, forced—some poor city official to change my last name and driver’s license to show my age as eighteen. I am now Vivian Vincent again, probably not smart returning to my childhood name, but that’s quite likely not the stupidest decision I’ve made. I’ve answered phones, cooked greasy burgers, and handed out fliers dressed as a giant hot dog for a new franchise opening. Currently, I’m a waitress in a blue polyester uniform at a truck stop diner that reeks of fried onions and dirty feet. All of this so that I can work my way west to wherever, driving a car that I traded Aunt Charlotte’s clunker in to get. Such a glamorous life!

Sounds like a great plan, huh?

Chapter Two

GETTING UP THIS MORNING was torture after lying awake most of the night. The alarm sounded like a tornado siren, but a shower always makes me feel less comatose. Auburn hair pulled back, blue uniform zipped, tennis shoes on, I lock the door behind me and walk the half-mile to the diner where five semis are parked nearby.

There’s my star waitress! Mr. Lewis’s voice, gravelly from forty years of smoking, booms from behind the counter where two men sip coffee. The sun is shining, and business is good! He says that same thing every morning, rain, shine, customers or not. He’s the happiest man I’ve ever met, and I think I’ll actually miss him when I leave here. Of course, that might be a while since I’m making decent money despite the lack of life in this town. Mr. Lewis’s diner does well since it is the only stop along this deserted stretch of highway.

Morning, sir. I smile and nod to the two men at the counter. I guess Julie’s not here yet. Should I start filling the shakers? I tie an apron with only a few stains around my waist.

Julie’s gonna be late, honey, he says, patting my back. Think you can handle it awhile all alone? He doesn’t wait for my reply, already knowing my answer, and starts through the swinging door to the kitchen. Alejandro is sick—least that’s what he says—so I’ll be manning the grill today. I think he doesn’t want to sort through the supply shipment I got last night. He’s sleepin’ in the back room.

Connected to the diner is a small storage area where, between toilet paper rolls and stacks of industrial-size ketchup bottles, stands an old army cot. I slept there a couple of nights when I first arrived in town. I’d coasted in about 2:00 am on fumes and spent my last $2 on a bowl of chili and a glass of tea. Lucky for me, Mr. Lewis was working alone that morning. He offered me a slice of apple pie, and I burst into sobs. I guess he knew a stray when he saw one because he offered me the cot, then a temporary job. Julie’s sister, Gwen, one of the other waitresses had started her maternity leave the day before I arrived, so my timing was perfect. That’s the only thing about these last three months that has actually been easy.

When the morning sun begins to peek in the front windows, the truckers start to wander in for breakfast, and my shift officially begins with an order of ham and eggs from a big, bearded man. By noon, my feet ache. Customers have steadily streamed in all morning, and for a Thursday, we’re really busy. Thankfully, I haven’t had time to think about my family or feel sorry for myself, and I already have $30 in tips.

Vivian, I’m so sorry! Julie rushes past me, throwing her purse behind the counter and tying on her apron. Joey got called in to work an extra shift, and I didn’t have a sitter till Gwen got back from the doctor. She grabs an order pad and tucks it into her apron front. "He couldn’t not go. We really need the money, and he makes double what I do, so… I’m late," she rambles while she looks for a pencil.

That’s okay, not a problem. I point to a table of three who need to place their order while I deliver a grilled cheese and fries to a man at the counter. Grabbing the pencil stub from behind my ear, I move on to a table near the side window where an old guy in an oil-stained cap is sitting.

I want a steak, medium rare—not well done and not totally rare. But I better see blood when I cut into it, or you’ll be getting it right back, girlie. He scowls at me while I smile sweetly. I really want to tell him where he can shove that medium rare, not well done, steak, but I need those tips even if it means being nice to grouchy, dirty jerks. And sweet tea. You know what that means, girlie? Sweet, as in real sugar, none of that fake crap!

Is that all? I’m scribbling the order and marking it ‘rush’ so that we can get this guy out of here quickly when I feel a tingle trip down my spine. The hairs on my arms stand up. I’ve felt that tingle before. Then it thrilled me; now it scares the hell out of me. I slowly lift my head to look out the window, knowing already what I’m going to see.

The sun glares off the windshield of an SUV, obscuring the faces within. The driver’s door opens and strong fingers grasp the top of the door as he swings his long legs out. The tingle is so strong now it borders on painful. As the door closes, I see his face, aqua eyes clear even at this distance. Easton is walking toward the diner.

Chapter Three

DANG! HE LOOKS GOOD in his khaki shorts and white t-shirt. His hair’s a little longer, but it takes nothing from his beautiful face. Abby’s voice pulls my eyes from him. She is bouncing along behind him, blonde curls pulled into pigtails and purple glasses perched on her perky nose, dragging a still super-size Cooper by the hand. She’s smiling, probably jabbering about what she wants to eat. When she glances toward the window, I slam back to reality full force.

Yes, uh, yes, sir. I’ll be, uh, right back, I stammer, backing into the table behind me, shaking the drinks of the couple seated there. Sorry, I’m so sorry! I whirl away, ram my thigh into the corner of another table, and walk-jog my way to the kitchen. When the swinging door smacks my butt and knocks me farther into the room, I squeak, snagging Mr. Lewis’s attention.

Vivian, what’s the matter? You’re white as a sheet. You see a ghost? Still holding his spatula like a shield in front of him, he comes toward me with real concern on his face and in his voice.

It’s… it’s him, Mr. Lewis! Mr. Lewis thinks I ran from a relationship that would never have worked, which is kind of true, just not the way he thinks. So, when I say ‘him,’ Mr. Lewis’s eyes widen, and he raises his eyebrows as he rushes to the food window that separates the kitchen and dining room. I hear the bell above the door announcing their entrance, and I close my eyes, gripping my order pad so tightly the edges bend in my sweaty hand.

Why is he here? I run my hand nervously over my head and nearly poke myself in the eye with the pencil stub I’m still clutching. He pries the order pad and pencil away from my hands.

How would I know? He’s your boyfriend, he whispers roughly as though Easton might hear him over the noise of the diner.

Ex! Ex-boyfriend! And your burgers are burning! I point to the grill where the patties sizzle and pop. As he curses and whips around, I ease to the opening, crouch low, and keeping my head mostly hidden, peeking over the edge.

He’s bending over a menu sitting with Coop and Abby in a booth across the room and pointing to something while Abby pokes Coop playfully in the ribs and giggles. He’s so perfect, dark hair, olive skin made darker from days spent on the baseball field no doubt, days of practice which have made his biceps and forearms firm and sculpted.

I let my eyes feast on him until he sits up straight; his brows crease as though he’s deep in thought. His eyes scan the dining room, and he begins to turn in my direction. Shit! Does he sense me somehow, like I sensed him? We’ve always had that weird connection that bound us together since the first day in the library when I tutored him in English. I duck quickly and crouch all the way to the floor.

Where is Vivian? Julie’s voice comes from above me where she stands at the food window. Mr. Lewis motions toward my hiding spot with his spatula. I look up and see her puzzled expression as she leans through the opening. What are you doing? You have new customers in your section. I just seated them and gave them menus. They’re probably ready to order drinks.

I shake my head, sweat beading on my forehead and hyperventilation quite probable. She shakes her head and looks at Mr. Lewis. What’s wrong with her?

He plates a burger. It’s him, he says, giving her a look and shaking his head as he hustles the burger to her waiting hand.

It’s him? Him, him? The him you ran away from? Oh, Vivian, why’s he here? She looks back over her shoulder.

Don’t look at him! I squeal.

Her head swivels back down to me. You gotta go, now! I’ll cover this. Go back to your apartment.

I look to Mr. Lewis who nods his agreement. I’ll send Alejandro to get you when the guy leaves.

Thank you, Mr. Lewis, and you, too. I glance up at Julie who gives me a sympathy smile.

Go. She shoos me with her hand and turns back to the dining room to deliver the burger.

Mr. Lewis reaches down his hand, and I take it, pulling myself to my feet. Then I do something incredibly stupid. I can’t help myself; I need one more look. Slow-motion-movie-style, I turn around toward the booth where Easton sits.

He’s looking right at me.

Chapter Four

I DASH FOR THE KITCHEN’S back door which leads to the storage room and lock it behind me. When my eyes adjust